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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25008322">Jonathan Crane Isn't Here Anymore...</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarrowMeister/pseuds/MarrowMeister'>MarrowMeister</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Codependence [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - Fandom, DC - Fandom, DC Comics, Scarecrow - Fandom, symbiote - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Batman References, Blood, Body Horror, DC Comics References, Horror, Original Character(s), Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Scary, Transformation, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:21:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,632</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25008322</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarrowMeister/pseuds/MarrowMeister</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Crane experiments with a mysterious goo like creature he found. Is it alive? Is it even sentient? What happens when his curiosity gets the better of him and he decides playing it safe isn't worth it. What happens when the thing he's spent so many hours 'playing' with has an opportunity to escape. What happens when the scariest creature in Gotham City becomes something new, something terrifying. What happens when Jonathan Crane becomes a living NIGHTMARE.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Codependence [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694629</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Jonathan Crane Isn't Here Anymore...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Consider this story a bit of a short and fun break before things start COOKING.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The tapping against the glass box was chaotic and disorganized... <em>afraid</em> even. The man tapped the glass with the top end of the pen he held. The fluid inside recoiled away from the sound, compounding within itself away from the vibrations and against the opposite side of the container. The man chuckled to himself in mild amusement before writing something down in the notebook that had been laying open on the desk beside the glass box. He dated the bottom of the page and signed his name; the fluidity of the fountain pen requiring a certain dexterity that some simply could not quite grasp while rewarding those who did with significantly more fluid and visually appealing handwriting.</p><p>‘Dr. Jonathan Crane’ he signed. The overly large ‘J’ and ‘C’ letters immediately drawing the eye.</p><p>“<em>They</em> may not consider my work legitimate. But <strong>I</strong> know better.” The man mumbled with clear distaste, his mind lingering on those that shunned him as an ‘extremist’ or even a <em>monster</em>.</p><p>“I’m not a monster, I’m simply willing to understand that morality is what holds them back.” He spit out the final word, disgusted at the thought of being considered a patient at the asylum he had spent years working for.</p><p>Crane closed the notebook with a ‘slap’. The macabre cover a disconcerting patchwork of different skin tones with obvious stitches binding the human leather to the pages within.</p><p>The doctor ran his hand over his forehead and then through his hair, standing up as straight as he could after having been hunched over for so long, watching the creature within writhe and shift in a body language that extended to any animal in existence. Even aliens and demons could show fear... and Crane <em>knew</em> fear. Crane <em>WAS</em> fear.</p><p> </p><p>His auburn hair visibly greasy and unclean. He absentmindedly wiped his hand across the stained lab coat that had seen so many years of his experiments. A coat that he had acquired more than 20 years prior during his time in Gotham University. He was not as young as he used to be. A series of familiar pains agreed with him. His right knee home to a dull throb that never quite went away from all of the time <em>The Bat</em> had shattered those bones just to keep him from getting away. The aggressive scar tissue spread all over the right side of his lower back from the one time he decided to see if his Fear Toxin had the capability of affecting someone like Waylon Jones. ‘Killer Croc’ he mentally spat. Crane corrected the sleeve of his coat that had slid just a bit too far up on his arm, revealing the chemically burned skin from years of failed experiments.</p><p>Attempts to create new and more advanced Fear Toxins, sometimes gaseous, sometimes powder, sometimes liquid.</p><p>Crane looked back at the 3’x3’x3’ glass container sitting on the desk against the wall. The creature within had ceased stirring. Perhaps it was tired he thought. Perhaps it was time for another dosage... he eyes shifted to a pair of rather large cylinders, both of which had tubing carefully connected back into the container. Crane did not know much about the physiology of the creature, that was partially the aim of his current endeavor.</p><p>He leaned towards the glass once more, practically pressing his long and pointed nose against the clear material.</p><p>“What. Are. You.” He moved his arm towards the rusted brown cylinder.</p><p>The cylinder with a carefully hand painted logo, reminiscent of The Batman’s very own symbol yet inverted. A cruel and warped image of what many citizens saw as a sign of justice. The upside-down bat serving as the mouth of a jack o’ lantern. Crane has taken the icon and twisted it for his own means, something originally meant to strike fear into the heart of criminals now appropriated by The Scarecrow to ingrain a raw terror into those that saw it.</p><p>Just above the logo, haphazardly scrawled with some sort of dark ink that could only be clearly read with direct light placed over the dark canister, was a long and complex biochemical formula. The most recent attempt at perfecting his toxin.</p><p>Crane glanced towards the back of his makeshift laboratory. He hated being forced into such an environment, being forced to rely on hired goons. ‘Idiots’ he thought, thinking of the overly muscled men just outside his door that knew nothing more than how to fire a gun. Truthfully he wasn’t even sure why he paid the fools anyways, they had never successfully held their own against the maddening vigilante that sought nothing more than to put a stop to the science he and society and deemed so ‘immoral’.</p><p>Crane twisted the red valve to the ‘open’ position quickly. It was clear that the creature within could sense what was coming. It pushed itself to the furthest corner, searching for any way to escape the sensation Crane himself craved so much. The chronic exposure to his own compounds had rendered him unable to feel fear, a permanent numbness that forced the man into thinking harder for every action he would take. The lack of any sense of danger made most actions in his life require the smallest bit more caution.</p><p>The greenish yellow gas sprayed into the glass box, filling it in seconds. The ooze flailed, its colors shifting wildly as it disappeared from vision for seconds at a time. Crane watched with deep interest before closing the valve once more. He watched, ready to record any new data in his personal notebook. The creature stopped moving, its wild movement and terrified shifting replaced with an eerie calmness.</p><p>Crane pressed his nose even harder against the glass, partially concerned the thing had died. He squinted, his glasses now clacking against the container as his breath fogged the two materials.</p><p>“Hey there little buddy.” He half-jokingly mumbled, not even knowing if the creature understood communication of any kind.</p><p>An initial hypothesis had led him to believe there was a possibility that perhaps a portion of the once actor turned monster known as Clayface had gained a sentience of some sort. This hypothesis was quickly disproven upon the introduction of large quantities of water along with a heavy decrease in temperature; two things that Clayface’s malleable body did not react positively to. Crane noticed the ever-slightest twitch of movement from the goo.</p><p>“Alive. Good.” He spoke softly, pulling himself away from the glass as he quickly scribbled a small paragraph into the notebook just below his chin.</p><p>Crane then pulled a pair of medically clean teal disposable gloves from the box beside him and began to slip them over his hand, assuring they sat snuggly against his thin hands. The doctor stood up straight once more and walked just around to the side of the desk. He cautiously pressed a finger against the metal clasp that held the box closed in preparation to open it. He had little worry that the thing inside posed any real danger, it had not shown aggressive tendencies to any of the living specimens he had placed within. A few rats would disappear into the deep brown fluid before returning to the surface, almost spit out in a sense. Yet all lived, even upon dissection Crane had found no differences in anatomy.</p><p>The clasp opened the container with a very audible ‘pop’ as the gas within dispersed quickly. Crane’s thoughts drifted to his mask; and the air filtration built into it. A creation that had grown redundant after years of accidental and even purposeful exposures had caused him to develop an immunity. He inhaled purposefully, breathing some of the gas that flowed out with the slightest hope he would fear again. The gas was musty, teetering heavily between a sterile odorlessness with the slightest hint of a mild like scent. He blinked hard feeling nothing, no heart rate acceleration, no headache, no cold sweat. None of the signs he silently prayed for. He sighed and pushed a gloved finger into the casing. The goo rippled but ultimately did not react. He pushed further, the fluid depressing at his touch. The very tip of his finger disappearing into the inert and opaque substance. It felt... alive. It felt... conscious.</p><p>Crane weighed his thoughts. If he could feel afraid, he likely would be. His eyes stared deeply at the goo and how his fingers just barely touched the surface. Then again...</p><p>Crane made the decision and pressed his fingers further downwards, the box appeared only half full and showed no visible reaction to his invasive technique. His hand continued to descend, enveloping his palm fully and then the beginnings of his wrist. He stopped just before the cuff of the glove, a single layer of disposable gloves separating his organic tissue with that of an unknown being. He questioned himself once more, was this fear? Was fear stopping him from continuing? He almost laughed at the very thought. No, no he was past that. Crane needed to know, he needed to be satisfied. His palm contacted the bottom of the box, now fully submerged in the fluid. It spilled into the glove and touched every inch of his skin that it could. There was no pain, but almost a curiosity in its movements. The way a cat would sniff someone just before contact.</p><p>Crane felt himself relax, a momentary exhalation if acceptance that whatever was inside was perhaps not even worthy of the term ‘sentient’. That is, until he felt a tug.</p><p>Crane looked back into the box, towards his hand. He began to pull upwards and felt the same pull downwards. Whatever was inside was not letting go. He blinked in surprise as the teal glove he had put on floated to the surf face just besides his exposed wrist. It had been removed and he didn’t even notice.</p><p>Crane felt the slightest inkling of a sensation he had not felt in years. The slightest layer of cold droplets developed across his forehead as the thought that he may no longer be in control drifted by. The goo shifted, still holding on to his hand before starting to vibrate. The box shook, rattling the table it had been secured to as Crane began to tug his arm back.</p><p>“Let go let go letgoletgoletgo” he spoke frantically.</p><p>The brown ooze vibrated even faster before folding in on itself and began to crawl up his wrist. There was nobody in the lab, no assistant, no hired goon, nobody. Crane felt he would die alone in a poorly constructed field lab and nobody would even know. The creature no longer filled the space in the box, clinging fully to Crane’s hand as he ripped it from the container. His awkward and lanky body stumbled backward, bumping wildly into the dozen or so cylindrical containers that had been stacked in the back corner. Each one with its own logo and formula, different attempts of the fear toxin and a glimpse into all of the years he had spent developing such a thing. Some simplistic formulas, some enhanced with green kryptonite, or Bane’s Venom compound; some even made from naturally occurring plants. A handful of the cylinders clattered around him as he landed on his rear. An immense pain shot through his lower back as he had likely just crushed his tailbone. Crane clutched the hand that the good cling to. It moved slowly up his arm as the hand below it refused to listen to any of his commands. The hand flexed as the ooze seemingly controlled the muscles below, bending his fingers at odd angles as if to test the range of movement its new body was capable of. The audible ‘pops’ and ‘cracks’ were ever so slightly muffled by the substance, but the pain was in full force. Crane screamed as the bones and muscles shifted and returned to their original position as the ooze continued up his arm, moving faster than it had before. Crane looked around for something he could use, anything, a tourniquet or even some sort of blade.</p><p>The master of fear had gotten his wish, and the irony was not lost on him. There was a brief second where he considered simply letting the process continue without interference; the only thing stopping him from doing so being that Crane was unsure whether he would live to record the results. The deep brown ooze pushed its way across his shoulder and over his chest, the sensation somewhere between an animal crawling its way across his skin and a full body electric shock. Perhaps the creature was simply test firing all of his nerves, performing a diagnostic experiment of its own. The sheer curiosity continued to prod Crane’s mind, getting closer and closer to simply convincing him to cease his defense. Crane cut his own screams off, forcing a calmness across his mind and finally making the decision to simply allow the process to move forth.</p><p>Within seconds the goo had covered his chest and began moving down his legs. He sat on his bruised tailbone as the goo reappeared from beneath his pants, having clung to every inch of his skin. The electric sensation continued, occasionally forcing a wince as it moved into a more painful territory for no longer than a second. The creature enveloped moved beneath his socks and enveloped his feet. There was a momentary pause as it now covered every inch of his body but had stopped just below his neck. Crane shook his head, waiting another few seconds for whatever the <em>thing</em> was doing to continue... but it never came. Perhaps this was the end, the creature had completed its purpose. Crane forced himself to his feet, quickly brushing himself off and surveying the dozens of varying sized tanks that had been so suddenly disorganized. He extended a hand and looked closely; every inch of his skin had seemingly been coated in a seemingly living brown skin. The color contrasted heavily against his naturally pale skin tone. He squinted, looking closely for any signs of... well, anything really. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, this was completely uncharted territory. In all his years in Gotham, Crane had never encountered anything of the sorts. Perhaps it was some sort of advanced nanotechnology from the future; time travel was not nearly unheard of in the world they lived in. Crane felt the skin tighten across his whole body. It was a very slight movement, just enough to draw his attention. The skin tightened once more as he looked deeply at the substance. The texture shifted, going from the smooth and almost natural skin like aesthetic to an almost woven texture. Crane could feel it without even touching, a material he had grown quite fond of. His very skin now mimicked that of burlap. A loosely woven deep brown material heavily associated with scarecrows... with his alter ego.</p><p>A shock exploded through Crane’s stomach. The natural balance he had felt just a moment prior now gone, replaced with a full body nausea. The organic burlap material tightened even more, constricting every inch of his body. The man bent over, grasping his midsection tightly as he felt a vomiting sensation overtake him. He puked, a large quantity of partially digested food spilling itself all over the unkempt wooden flooring. The pain in his stomach continued, increasing even as he puked once more. His body retched as he cried out over and over. There was nothing left in his stomach, nothing left to remove but he could not stop retching. He puked again, an incredibly large quantity of deep red fluid spilling all over the floor, partially across one of the Fear Toxin containers as it dripped between the floorboards. Crane felt unsure if he was dying, but it sure looked like it. He puked again as more and more blood spilled out, he felt incredibly lightheaded as the blood spilled everywhere, changing from a deep arterial red to a thicker and darker venous fluid. The skin scraped every inch of his body, as if it were competing with his own natural skin. The sensation was nearly unbearable, he couldn’t even scream anymore as the coppery taste of blood and stomach acid coated his esophagus.</p><p>Crane gasped for air but could not quite inhale. There was no escape, not even relief from the kind of pain he was experiencing. There was a moment where any normal human would likely have passed out or even died from such agony; the moment when the very bones within his legs snapped and pushed their way to the surface. The aggressively broken remnants of his tibia and fibula pushed their way through the skin where his kneecaps sat just as every bone in his feet rearranged themselves. Crane felt the sensation of gravity and falling but couldn’t see what was happening as the ooze coated his face, leaving him in nothing but pain and darkness.</p><p>“You. Hurt. Me. Now you will feel what I felt. Now WE will feel it.” A voice spoke ever so calmly, as if the message was spoken directly into Crane’s brain.</p><p>Crane knew he couldn’t scream but tried to anyways. There was no sound, only the slightest gasp as the last bit of oxygen left his lungs. Crane’s hands flailed wildly, only partially under his control but completely unguided by his blindness. His fingertips sharpened to points that extended far beyond that of normally proportioned hands flexed inwards. Two or three of the fingertips scraped by a container and pierced through its thing metal exterior. Only one tank at first, soon followed by two then three as Crane’s blinded body damaged every tank around him. The air filled with almost a dozen variations of Fear Toxins. Some yellow, some green, some colorless, and one even a bright orange.</p><p>Crane struggled for air, desperately trying to open his mouth that was being held shut by such a merciless creature. A creature that had spoken to him and clearly wanted revenge. Crane pushed himself, pushing his jaw down as hard as he could. The burlap threads weakened, the organic substance shredding ever so slightly as the gas surrounding the pair was quickly sucked into the previously vacuum sealed orifice. Crane’s lungs filled, not with oxygen, but with a familiar musty scent. He brought his new sharpened fingers to his face, now suddenly under his control once more, and carefully pierced the area where his eyes were supposed to be. He sat in the gaseous cloud, inhaling its almost comforting scent as he looked around at the room his torture had just taken place in. Crane looked around the once poorly lit room, now able to see every single detail that had done escaped him. The slight bit of light that shown through the one exit in the corner, the layers of dust across the unused surfaces, the streaks and fingerprints from his nonsterile and hand washed lab glassware. Crane knew he shouldn’t even be able to stand after what had just happened, but besides the dullest reminder of a pain that was just now disappearing, he felt fine. Better than fine even, he felt... powerful.</p><p>Crane pushed himself to his feet, something felt off. He felt, taller? He questioned mentally.</p><p>Crane looked down at a body that his brain told him was his, but his memories disagreed. His once plantigrade legs, now digitigrade. He flexed his legs, the inhuman shape of standing on his toes something he knew he would need to get used to. The whole situation should have terrified him, but instead, he felt excitement. Crane extended a hand out in front of him, his skin replaced with burlap and his fingers like knives; yet, when he curled them into a fist, they instinctively reshaped into something more natural.</p><p>“Fascinating” he spoke aloud, a yellowish cloud permeating the air in front of him with every syllable.</p><p>His voice audibly vibrating.</p><p>“Very. Fascinating”</p><p>“I know not what you are,” Crane mentally reached out for the voice that had spoken to him just a minute prior.</p><p>“But it is clear you do not wish to kill me. What is it you want?” He asked to not a person, but the very thing that surrounded him.</p><p>Crane waited for a response as he visually searched the room for a mirror of some kind. He felt an itch to see himself, to revel in what he had become. Crane moved towards the bathroom, knowing some answers lied within. Crane lowered his head as he cleared the threshold.</p><p>“That’s new” he looked down at his legs he had never seen before but were clearly his own.</p><p>The small room was covered in dirty and poorly maintained tile, more than half of which had been shattered or simply removed. The room was not dark, not to his new eyes at least, but he flipped the switch regardless, out of habit. Light filled the tiny room and revealed even more signs of age and neglect, none of which Crane cared about at the moment. The reflective surface in front of him could not lie. Crane stared, silently. He turned his head to each side, then looked at his chest. The man that had once been known as Doctor Jonathan Crane was no more. Even the name that had been given to him no longer felt appropriate. He was no longer Crane; he was no longer even The Scarecrow. He had become something else, something worthy of a new name. The monstrous entity looked at the bloodstained clothes covering his body, the lab coat that had once held such sentimental value for a non-sentimental man now nothing more than shreds clinging to an inhuman walking corpse. The newly formed creature shrugged the coat off, letting it fold to the floor. The shirt beneath remained on, yet almost unrecognizable from its original design. A simple black button up now entirely missing its sleeves and completely open at the center. Revealing the creature’s visible ribcage that was only just barely covered by a layer of the organic burlap like material. The monster inhaled deeply, the skin over its rib cage moving with the musculature as the abnormally thin belly beneath barely expanded. The black dress pants that clung to its waist now reduced to nothing more than tattered shorts. The boy protrusions of the kneecaps only a few inches shy of making contact with the cloth. It was clear that whatever the creature had done to the man’s biology... there was no undoing. The monster looked deeply into its own eyes. The burlap material so tightly sealed to the skull beneath that it was impossible such a thing was a mask. No... it was a face. It was <em>their</em> face.</p><p>The curled grin of the monster appeared fleshy at first glance. It was impossible to tell if the shreds of burlap were simply that, or a fleshy organic tissue that had been forcibly torn open. The slit eyes and torn mouth appeared somewhere between a twisted jack o’ lantern or the next incarnations of The Scarecrow’s mask. The monster exhaled once more, the gas puffing against the mirror’s surface. The human brain beneath oozed with interest and fascination at its new body, but it also knew that it was sharing such a form. It was not alone, it was no longer Crane, and it was no longer The Scarecrow. Together they had become something else, a reaper of courage. A living phobia. A <strong>Nightmare</strong>.</p><p>The newly christened pair of beings moved together. Neither spoke yet without words they understood one another. Just minutes prior they were two, both seeking to understand one another. One sought answers and the other sought revenge. Yet, they were beyond that now, they understood that they belonged to one another. Two pieces that neither knew they needed. Nightmare scanned the room once more, pieces of a costume the man beneath had used for years sat in the corner. A noose, a mask, a weapon leaning against the wall; all signs of a man driven to radical extremes by the city that had forced him to do so. The monster approached the items, lifting the mask first. A simple burlap mask similar to the skin they were now made of, yet with two large glass eye lenses and a hidden gas mask beneath. A simplistic design with a job of nothing more than protecting the user. Its ragged stitching still holding a value of some sort to half of the creature, to the man below who still breathed beneath.</p><p>The creature was one entity yes, but it was made of two minds. Two lifetimes of experiences, each with their own memories, likes, and more. The second mind responded silently. Every inch of their new body now covered in scattered stitching, each patch of the organic burlap a slightly different shade yet all connected by large black stitches. They no longer needed the mask; they were beyond that. Nightmare dropped it to the ground, not even giving such a thing a second thought. They lifted the next object, a hand tied noose. A symbol of fear to many, a symbol of the end of life. A symbol of death. A fear that almost every living creature shared. The ultimate symbol of the sensation they craved. The 6 rings ending in a large loop on one end and a long rope on the other. Nightmare held the loop in one hand and slid the rings down with the other. They slipped it over their head, the very end of the rope dangling just down their unnaturally long torso.</p><p>Nightmare took one more step towards the door, the exit. They had no plan but knew that they were ready. They would drive fear into the citizens of Gotham, they would bring terror to every living creature they found. They would be a living nightmare to anything that so much as took a breath. They stopped; one hand curled around the cool metal of the dented doorknob. They glanced around the room once more, scanning over the leaking canisters, the pints of blood and bits of vomit that had been sprayed across the floor, the now open glass box...</p><p>They finally turned to look just beside the door they stood in front of. The last piece of their ensemble staring back. A tool once associated with nothing more than farming, turned into the very representation of Death itself. A 6-foot-tall scythe, its body made of an aged wood leading to a small protrusion near the top. A handle originally designed for stability when cutting grain. Nightmare grasped the tool, brandishing it like the weapon it had been repurposed in to. Its long and curved blade slightly chipped about two-thirds of the way towards the tip from the few times The Scarecrow had actually managed to connect a swing with the Dark Knight. Nightmare clutched the weapon that had once towered over their human body, now placing it against their back as the skin grew around it, securing the object into an organic holster of sorts. They turned back to the door, grasping it tightly before turning it and pushing. They ducked through the low clearance and stepped out.</p><p>“Hey boss I heard a lot of noi-“ a deep masculine voice spoke, interrupting itself with the man’s own scream.</p><p>A scream that started in surprise and shifted into one of pure terror. A scream that pushed every ounce of oxygen from the man’s lungs before it was replaced with nothing but pure Fear Toxin. The yellowish green cloud filled the air, inching its way through the doorway the monster had just walked through. That the Nightmare had just walked through.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please consider staying with the series as it moves forward.<br/>You can reach me<br/>@MeisterMarrow on Twitter<br/>or<br/>@MarrowMeister on Tumblr.<br/>I would love to discuss these characters further or share fully realized art of them, don't be afraid to reach out to me.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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